


Those Shoes

by thealexandriaarchives



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Chopin - Freeform, Light BDSM, M/M, Name Brand Fashion Porn, Shoes, Stiletto Heels, The World Needs More Jim in High Heels, Torture, leather worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:15:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealexandriaarchives/pseuds/thealexandriaarchives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty tortures people in Louboutin high heels. I really have no excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those Shoes

No one else ever seems to see.

Of course, when you’re bound and gagged in one of Jim’s interrogation chambers, staring at a solid steel door and waiting for it to swing open to reveal ever more creative and drawn out perfections of the ancient art, you usually have other things on your mind.

Not that the gag is necessary of course, nearly half a mile beneath London in a lead-lined box, so deep you can’t even hear the Tube rattle by. It just serves to heighten senses and anticipation. A rough, unpleasant taste on the tongue, a little extra effort to breathe or swallow, increased nerve sensitivity…

As Jim so sweetly smiled the week he played wedding planner to Russian diplomat’s daughter, it really is the details that make an experience.

With all that increased hyperawareness, Sebastian would think someone should notice.

But they all disregard the sharp tap, tap, tap of Jim’s predatory approach on the concrete floor, chalk up the additional height to miscalculation or the sheer pants-pissing terror of having _The _ Fucking _Moriarty_ looming over you with a switchblade and a Cheshire grin.

Sebastian Moran has never cared about designer brands or label names, but thanks to a public school education and a few years with Jim he can now identify everyone worth knowing on sight.

He has no idea where he got them, but he’s pretty sure of two contradictory and fairly self-explanatory facts.

Christian Louboutin does not make four inch black leather fuck-me pumps sized for men.

And Jim Moriarty does not wear knock-offs.

He also doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. But when most people hear that rumor, their minds (or eyes, if gossip about Jim is ever so carelessly thrown about) slide to Sebastian, and they assume they know what it means.

No. Jim literally doesn’t like to get his £80 manicure, or (heaven and hell both shudder to think) his pristine clothes dirty. Despite this fastidiousness he still manages to be as hands-on as anyone could possibly hope.

Not that today’s canvas seems to have breathed a sigh of relief at this revelation.

Sebastian slouches against the door, shouldering it shut with a soft clang that reverberates through the room as the dark haired Irishman crosses to his gleaming tray of tools, eyes not even sliding over the shivering banker on display.

The pudgy bastard’s breathing catches for a second, as slim fingers pick up a surgical grade scalpel and hover over a switch on the wall, glancing nervously up at the single fluorescent light illuminating the scene.

The switch clicks solidly down, and a Chopin Nocturne begins to trickle from the stereo speakers imbedded in the walls, the music pooling like a noxious gas, slowly and inevitably seeping upwards to fill the small room.

Jim listens intently for a moment, eye closed, rolling his head back around in that slow serpentine manner he uses to concentrate. The sniper smiles when he recognizes it as one of Moriarty’s own recordings. Nocturne No. 1, Opus 72. Apparently Rubenstein never got the crescendos quite right. Satisfied with what he hears, the artist finally turns his attention to his piece.

As Jim’s back blocks his sight of muffled pleadings, drenching the gag with uncontrollable drool, and overblown corneas, full of panic and adrenaline, Sebastian’s eyes sweep down the slim figure to rest appreciatively on Jim’s ankles. The lightly pinstriped black suit (Brooks Brothers, Fall Collection) are hemmed just short enough to reveal soft, rounded toes and hint of stiletto heel.

Jim leans forward to examine his first brushstroke and Seb’s breath hitches slightly as the back of his cuffs ride up slightly, revealing that first glimpse of signature red sole before sliding back down, a curtain call on the final rehearsal, the real performance still to come.

The remaining teases of material catch the severe light ever so slightly, not with the harsh plastic shine of patent leather, but with the deceptively soft glow of high-quality kidskin, buffed to perfection.

The first drops of blood hit the rough grey floor, one less than an inch from Jim’s right shoe. The slight difference in hue between the reds sets Sebastian’s teeth on edge.

One day, someday, Jim will miscalculate, and a drop of red will splash on those impeccably kept heels. Furious, he’ll slit the throat of the poor sod responsible, spilling the rest of that impertinent red cascade before turning to him and demanding his Tiger clean it up.

Oh, and he will. He’ll spring forward as Jim leans back against the smooth concrete wall, hooking his untainted leg around Seb’s shoulders as he sinks to his knees, the infernal pressed material of his trousers riding up against the strain to grant him access as he laves his tongue over that smooth black expanse.

Cat’s tongues are rough, barbed things, and either that or the urge to scrape his teeth across that cool smoothness will prove too much, and he’ll ultimately mar that perfection.

Jim’s leg will tense around his shoulders, and his hand will come down to tighten in his hair, ankle sliding across his collarbone to rest the stiletto against his pulse point, dangerously close to emulating its namesake, as Jim hisses his disapproval from above…

But not today.

Blood flows more freely now, streaming to the ground and puddling before it slid away down the drain fixed beneath the room’s only chair. The music grew more frenzied too, as Jim practically twirled around his subject, expertly avoiding every sticky liquid obstacle without a casual glance down to confirm his next step.

Sebastian wishes there was some kind of ventilation in here. His fingers are twitching for a cigarette.

The piece reaches its climax as Jim draws a final, slow line down the man’s still (barely) heaving chest and torso, stretching down fluidly to continue it uninterrupted. A bright streak of red reveals itself as he rises to his toes, nearly bent in two to complete his work before straightening, the curtains lowering again.

Seb groans quietly in appreciation, and Jim turns to smirk knowingly at him as the music finally dies away.

He can’t wait to see next season’s.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you mix Chopin and Eagles, kids. Be warned. Title from the latter’s song, which is now permanently engraved in my head and playlists as a Jim Moriarty song.
> 
> The Shoes in question are here: http://eu.christianlouboutin.com/uk_en/homepage/new-simple-pump-kid.html
> 
> First completed MorMor fic. Comments appreciated.


End file.
